


Rearrange what you have found

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chair stirs as Bruce stands up, walks around Tim to lift him like there are magnets inside the cages of their ribs, like Tim is a small, tired child that refuses to walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rearrange what you have found

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song "Hurt me" by Kerli.

The Manor relies on their concealed lungs now, on the security of their feet, their meaningless quarrels that leave their lips smelted, relies on the strings they forget to cut, on the labyrinths between them but there’s no center, no safe ground to call from and Tim licks his dreams away, pushes them out of his mind, dips them into Bruce’s mouth.

He’s going to share properly, he’s going to imply and he’s going to do it for himself, he’s going to wait on Bruce’s bed, one day; he’s going to be spread as wide as Bruce needs but today they’re alone and raw under the tips of their relationship, raw under heavy, uncut kisses that drag down to their bellies, that grow under their skin, kisses that Bruce initiates and Tim continues, hands that only know shoulders toes and knees, only recognize bone and the structure of clothes, cotton on kevlar on water, linen on skin and cloth underneath it, silk inside their mouths. 

Bruce’s bedroom glows in sweet, washed away tones, glows with impish colours on their silver screens and it’s sensual, it’s obscene in the sense that it’s something Tim has never seen, never felt, never _lived through_ and the heatless, dyed air spreads through the white of his shirt until the moment is under his skin, the bulge wet on the top and dry everywhere else, dry reflected on Bruce’s teeth like Tim can stand this for hours, like Tim watched himself become rocky bones and ivory lips, breathing out of his lungs with nothing to strip anymore unless he was a ghost, unless the inner sides of his body were useless, so sparse Bruce could sink his fingers into him without imprints left to show, without Tim fearing how it will make them feel. 

He thinks about what it tastes like instead; when Bruce slowly circles his mouth, when his nails bump against Tim’s teeth, when Bruce’s fingers slide inside, Tim’s tongue under the salty, inky texture of his knuckles pressing against his jaw, thinks about structures and salt when his tongue slips between the fingers and when his mouth opens wider, closing his eyes against Bruce’s sight, curious, still, thrusting the fingers in and out, knuckle deep yet shallow, shallow for the things Tim tries to imitate, his jaw a slow ache and his cock a fast one; the wet spot spreads and spreads and spreads. 

(Drips and soaks as he swallows and it’s better than being fucked, it’s better than Bruce’s mouth or tongue or teeth anywhere else and it might be an oral fixation, it might be Bruce reading the signs written on his mouth, it might be the caricature of the act, the slow denial.)

The twin, dry fingertips holding Tim’s jaw, Tim’s sculptured face stay a second, two longer as Bruce retreats the fingers, presses three of them against Tim’s mouth and drops them to Tim’s chest, damp but drying as he tells him not to move, _don’t move, Tim_ so Tim braces himself and puts his hands underneath the lock of his ankles, sitting up on his naked knees, exposing his shoulders and ribs and belly and he exhales, the air sweeping his chest back, away from Bruce but he’s content with waiting; waiting for Tim to breathe in again, for Tim to prove he’s alive, for Tim to address the infatuated staccato of his blood, waits for his own body to sink, to settle into its memories so he can find place for _this_ , for nearly bare boys, for nearly known Tims trying not to jerk their hips, for the sun to skip the angle between his neck and shoulder, for Tim to be as translucent as he should be when Bruce bites and sucks and paints inches of Tim’s skin, from the tips of his shoulders to the dip of his hips, to the softest skin until his chin grazes the border of cotton and modesty and Tim’s precome, until Tim moans through every word and every slide of fingertips until Bruce cups Tim’s thighs and his palms slip between them, caress the lines of elastic and skim across the pliant, filled lines of Tim’s body, across the cottony barrier that reveals instead of hides, across the bridge of Tim’s erection, staying there for minutes until the boy squirms, until he misbehaves the way he didn’t want to and Bruce returns to his lips, dips his tongue to find the taste of his skin.

(To find the taste of his _fingers_ , the taste of moans and broken off syllables; slipping under the elastic, wet hem to touch away the neglect, to make room for his mouth and his palm, to grip Tim tight so he won’t come sooner than Bruce had enough, enough of Tim’s stops of lungs and Tim’s whites of knuckles, of Tim’s drag of teeth.)

It’s them against the sheets and the afternoon hour; the morning in their blood and when Bruce kisses him he misses his mouth on purpose, doesn’t know how else to search through his skin to try to liquefy Tim’s need, to suck it out of his skin, out of the edge of his bony shoulders.  
Spreading his own legs, naked to the tips of his fingers, Bruce doesn’t see any stops in this and – there weren’t any. There was no hungry pause, no _let’s not fuck in the office_ interlude and it wasn’t – it was nothing more than touching Tim’s cock through his Armani pants, it was his zipper being open and his button sagging against his hip and if Bruce didn’t hold his thighs open, didn't keep his underwear stretched Tim wouldn’t have curled his toes on the floor and expected to come – _to come again_ – to stain in the most unfortunate places but – Bruce stopped. Bruce paused, Bruce let go, his tongue slipping back into his mouth and the underwear over Tim’s head as the precome made a circle out of his sob, a dot out of the quiver of his sides.

But Bruce is mostly thorough, mostly patient, a tease when he’s feeling young and says: “Bed.” and Tim scrambles, takes a step that drags a moan through his mouth, up his neck and he shudders, sags against Bruce’s desk, “Oh God.” escaping under his teeth, under the tightening of his jaw and it’s the only thing that’s still stable, still firm and sharp. (His jaw, his eyes, his bones.) 

The chair stirs as Bruce stands up, walks around Tim to lift him like there are magnets inside the cages of their ribs, like Tim’s a small, tired child that refuses to walk and Bruce indulges the idea, secure, rough palms straps under Tim’s thighs and their bed was kept unmade for this; for seconds and encores and Tim’s too spent to move mind.

(It’s Sunday, it’s the afternoon and it’s only the third time Bruce made Tim come.)


End file.
